Fire Red, Burning Blue
by BlackOpal
Summary: "You can do it," Gale whispers. "Shoot him." "Yes Katniss," Snow says, ruining my concentration. "Shoot me. Shoot me... and Peeta dies." Post CF.
1. The Chance

Disclaimer: I do not own anything but the story. The characters belong to Suzanne Collins and she writes them more beautifully than I ever could. I'm not making any profit on this story, I'm just doing it because I love it and because Katniss won't leave me alone.

A/N: For the time frame, it's been a little over two years since the end of Catching Fire.

* * *

"Katniss." Someone's calling me from far away, pulling me out of my dream.

"No!" I mumble and lean forward towards the hand that's outreached towards me. "Wait," I say, but he's fading from me. "Don't leave me."

"Katniss, wake up!" Whoever was shaking me shakes harder and the hand disappears forever.

For a few seconds, I lay awake with my eyes closed. I concentrate on my breathing and try to bring myself out of the sleepy stupor. From above me, I hear Gale's sigh. Through squinted eyes, I watch him bring his fingers up to carefully brush under my eyes. There's a mixture of sweat and salt slipping down my cheeks.

"Again?" He asks me.

Sweat cling to my nightshirt. My bare legs feel soaked and I can feel my hair matted down. I'm a mess, but I know Gale's looking at me for some sort of confirmation. "Yea," I mutter and struggle to sit up in bed. I bring my hand to my eyes and wipe away any sort of relaxation from my mind. "What's the matter?"

Gale had been up late. I didn't feel him come in next to me last night and definitely didn't feel him when he got up in the morning. They had tried to explain it to me—the mission to the Capitol, the escape back and the repercussions of it all… the Plan. I pretended to understand it, pretended to care, but I had been too tired to fake it.

It'd been two weeks since they started airing Peeta's torture sessions on the national station. When they started, I broke three windows, the mess hall's table and Haymitch's arm. I went a little crazy when I saw Peeta's silent compliance, no resistance, as the Capitol's henchmen tried hard to coerce screams from him. Gale had the televisions removed, thinking that watching the sessions would only upset me. After I threatened to break Haymitch's other arm, they were returned. Gale tried to stop me a few times. He said they wanted me to get upset. Maybe Gale was right, but I needed to watch it.

In truth, seeing Peeta's broken body killed me. I spend every waking moment in front of the television, memorizing new scratches and new scars. I swear under my breath to put the same exact marks on Snow's body in retaliation. My free will fell apart. I did not want to go with Gale on the missions to take down the Capitol, I wanted to stay in front of the TV. Every session I saw gave me hope. Peeta was still alive and I had a reason to stay on here fighting.

But I was hopeless. I spent hours pouring over a map with our strategists, but the Capitol had anticipated that. Every session was held in a bright room without windows. The sessions were broadcasts by tape from a different location. We couldn't even track the television waves. We could not find Peeta. For a while, I went on the missions because I thought Peeta would be hiding there or maybe we could find someone we could torture for the location. No one knows, they would say, no one except Snow. Exasperated, I spent my nights watching the sessions. At least then I felt close to Peeta.

I clear my throat, "What is it?" Gale's at the foot of my bed, picking out clothes and flinging them on my bed. I pull off my shirt and yank the one he's picked out for me over my head. From underneath the covers, I shimmy into the pants. I try to go quickly—it's rare that Gale shows urgency.

"Gale?" I press.

"We've got him." I notice his new cut down the center of his forehead and a new bandage covering his forearm. A sick feeling washes over me and I feel guilty. I've been so concerned with what I see on TV that I forget about what's going on right in front of me. I bring my hand up to touch the bandage. Gale looks at me wondrously. "Did you hear what I just said?" He asks.

"Got who?" The bandage had a tinge of blood, betraying the depth of the cut. His skin under the bandage was slimy with pus.

Gale yanks his arm from me. He pulls me closer to him.

"Snow," he whispers. "We got Snow." I suppose I expected something else, something less… monumental. I did feel Gale besides me, smiling like he'd got the world delivered to him on a platter.

"Snow! Can you believe it? After all this time, we've finally got him!" He pulls me in for a quick kiss, still holding his elated smile, and holds me tight. "This is the end," he breathes, "It's finished."

"Bring me to him," I say.

"That's why I woke you up." He smiles. So definite. Gale has always known what he's supposed to do.

Of course. He had to come get me, it was the law. A year after I was "rescued" from the second Hunger Games arena, District 13 created a law—no one could kill President Snow, no one except me. It was my right, they'd said. It was my duty as the mockingjay. I was the face of the revolution, it was only fair that I'd be the one who would destroy the face of who we're rebelling against. It was Haymitch's idea—a way of ensuring I'd stay alive and I'd get my revenge.

I hated the damn law. They assumed I wanted to murder, wanted blood on my hands. I didn't want anything to do with the revolution. I went on the missions only because I wanted to save Peeta. I had killed only because I believed it would lead me closer to him.

Gale lets me go and presses something hard, cold and heavy into my palms.

"You're gonna need this." A quick kiss, then, " I love you." I open my mouth to say something, but Gale just gives me a smile and leaves the room. I was glad.

I look down to what he's given me—a gun. Deep breaths. I concentrate on deep breaths. I know I'm supposed to walk to the holding tank and I do. I'm in such a rush I forget to pull on the socks and shoes Gale laid out for me, but the floor tile feels refreshing. I can feel my flush face burning tear streaks away. Doors open around me and people clamorto stand in their doorways. I am met with that look—the same look the district gave me when I stood up to volunteer for Prim, the same look they gave me when it was revealed I would be going back to the Hunger Games arena. The look is a mixture of pity, disgust and hope. _Kill him_, their eyes say, _Make him feel our pain_. How was it that everyone else knew Snow was captured and it took Gale the entire morning to tell me? Inside a voice answers my question: I had been too busy watching Peeta's torture. I try my best to ignore it.

The gun is unnatural in my hand. Ever since we landed in District 13, Gale has been eager to get me used to one. You're not always going to have a bow and arrow, he said. I don't like the weapon. The bullets didn't kill as clean and I realized that I hate the sight of blood. But it's quick and when you're fighting for your life while twenty peacekeepers converge around you, you need something quick.

What we call the Situation Room (although I believe the commanders just call it Mission Control) is located at the end of the hall. I take short steps, hoping to delay any time of confrontation because I know how it will end. Bloody. There's no excuse for it. I've known that this was the right thing to do for some time. After all he did, I should be happy to kill him. I've fantasized about this exact moment. But there's a feeling deep down inside me that I can only identify as disappointment. Despite the thousands of people who want me to murder Snow, there's one person who would hate me. Even though he's just one person, his opinion of me weighs more than those thousands' do.

When I get to the door, I know I can't hesitate any longer. At least ten minutes have passed since Gale came to get me and I know I should be in the room by now. If I take any longer, Snow could see my delay as a weakness. I try not to notice my hand trembling as I push into the room. Five seconds. I allow myself five seconds for my emotions to overtake me and after, I will be calm and collected.

_One._

I survey the room, which looks how it always does. The TV screens in the front of the room are flashing quickly. Some show the control stations of other hovercrafts, some the National Television Channel and others show the prison cells which were buried deep in the heart of District 13.

_Two._

I notice that one of the light bulbs is out overhead. The lighting casts a funny dark glow onto the spot below, the one with the gigantic blackboard. I had spent so many hours of my life wasting away in front of that blackboard while Gale and the Captain drew pictures and strategies and plans. I almost giggle because I suddenly realize I'm not into the Capitol revolt and I never have been. The only reason I'm here and standing barefoot in the center of the revolution is a boy.

_Three._

There's no other place to look. My eyes shift to the back of the room where the soldiers are clutching their weapons so tight I think they're going to break them. The Captain is straight with his hands on his hips. His gun is cast aside. Gale stands with clenched fists, has his legs spread far apart and leans towards the man in the chair. He shifts to his other leg, giving me enough room to spot our prisoner.

_Four._

President—or should I say ex-President—Snow sits in the chair, surrounded by the men. His head is bent over his chest and I can only see his pure white hair. The smell tells me he's real—the sickening mixture of blood and roses. I feel my stomach rise and for a moment, I'm tempted to throw up my dinner. But I can't show weakness.

He looks as if he's asleep. His hands are folded over each other and rest in his lap. His legs are firmly planted on the ground. This man sent me to my death—twice. With the gun in my hand, I have the power to finally end his. Yet, even though he is encircled by rebel forces, he looks peaceful and almost powerful. I feel my fingers lock and the conflict between fight and flight nearly cripples me. I'm suddenly glad for the cool tile because I can feel the sweat slowly dripping down my spine. My breath catches in my lungs. I struggle to get enough air. Gale looks at me because I think he heard my heart. I will him to be quiet, at least long enough to stop the hairs on my arms from standing. But others have seen Gale turn and they know I'm here.

_Five._

I erupt into the Katniss I am supposed to be; the assertive, confident, cold-blooded killer. I become who I'd been in the games. I strut over to the circle, gripping the gun like I own it. I grit my teeth and curl my mouth into a contemptuous smile. Standing barefoot with unbrushed morning, I look like a feral warrior. I look as far from the innocent Capitol plaything as I could. I want Snow to look at me and cower. I want him to know that he will meet his death at my hands and that I will have no problems wiping his blood from under my fingernails-- blood I'm sure will smell like roses.

My eyes drill holes into the snowy hair and I feel strong. I feel powerful. I feel as if I can do this. Snow knows I'm here. I can see him grip his hands a little tighter. He must see the guns lower and the soldiers, out of respect for me, stand at attention. I walk until I stand in front of him. I square my shoulders and fold my arms behind my back. After two tantalizing moments, he raises his eyes to look at me.

And laughs.

Snows thick lips draw tight. He throws his head back and I can see his Adam's apple slide with the sounds. His laugh is raspy, but relentless. His eyes sparkle. He slaps one hand against his knee, and then reaches for his chest because he can't breathe. He's laughing too hard.

Gale catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. What's going on, he asks me. But I shake my head. I can't think of why Snow's having this reaction. He has fifteen guns pointed at various parts of his body. He's been captured by rebel forces and I'm the one who's going to ruthlessly blow his brains out. Just like I'd fantasized.

"Katniss," Snow manages to utter. His use of my real name shocks me and for a brief moment, surprise takes over my stone face. When he sees my look, he breaks into laughter again. "You're beautiful." A murmur rises from the crowd. Of all the things Snow could say, this was the last thing any of us expected. "My God look at you!" His chest rises and falls quickly, recovering from his amusement, "Look at what I've created."

A few moments pass before I'm able to register what he's saying. He sees me as a killer. The notion sinks into me before I realize the devastating effects it has on my psyche. My assertive stance sinks into one less sure. The gun's weight sneaks up on me and I almost drop it from my hands.

"You lie," I say. Snow laughs again. His broad lips draw back and I see so many teeth. They are all a perfect white.

"No. You want me to see you as my executioner. Well you look the part. You look half mad. Have you slept at all?" He runs his eyes up and down my body. I feel naked in front of him. Vulnerable. How did he know? "Though the gun doesn't look natural… should I request a bow and arrow?"

I start to falter. I can't do this. I'm not a killer. _Remember your enemy_. Gale steps forward and loops an arm around my waist. I try to feed off his energy, try to find comfort in his security. This is his element. He has been training for this day his entire life. While I was in the arena, playing into Snow's big vision, Gale was turning everything Snow worked for into dust. Gale will know what to do. I force my body to straighten again. I pretend a string was controlling me and once again, I square my shoulders.

"Ah," Snow brings his hand to his cheek. His smile turns cynical. I find this more dreadful than the laugh, "And here's the admirable _cousin_. Here to protect her are we? The delicate flower?"

It shouldn't be this way. He should not have power over me. I close my eyes, hoping to dissolve the fear I find building up. In my head, I see him at the desk in the Victory house. He was in complete control there and there, he threatened Gale. I have to protect Gale. Snow's hold must be broken. I try to find resolve and try to ignore the panic the rose-blood smell built underneath my nose.

This is my destiny. I am meant to do this.

But I've taken too long. Gale reacts.

"Shut up," he sneers, "You have no right to talk here. You have no power."

"I will always have power," Snow counters and then adds, "_boy_."

I can feel Gale, but he cannot feel himself. He turns into a ticking time bomb. I feel his gun click as he flicked off the safety mechanism. Pay attention, I tell myself. Do not let him break the law. If Gale does something stupid, he will be punished. He will ruin everything.

"Gale," I tug on his arm. "Stop." He tries to shake me off and I do my best to hold on.

"Yes Gale," Snow hisses, "Stop." He mimics my voice, high pitched and full of awe. I'm enthralled by it and loosen my grip. What is this hold he has on me?

But I can't control him. Gale shakes off my arm and leans close to Snow. Gale puts his face so close to Snow's that I'm sure he can smell that thick blood smell.

"You're going to die."

And it's so simple. Gale smiles like he's won, because he has. Snow will die and there's no way out. I think of Gale and how hard he's worked. I think of Peeta, sprawled out and bleeding like I've seen him so many times on TV. I will murder Snow for them. I have the courage now. I can do this.

But Snow ruins my resolve with a few short sentences.

"Tell me Gale," Snow says, closing whatever distance their faces have. Their noses are millimeters away from touching, "How's the sex?"

My entire body drains of any emotion. Cold seeps through my veins and freezes my heart. He cannot be doing this.

Gale's hand twitches. His arm starts to crawl upwards and takes the gun with it.

"What did you say?" It's challenge. Gale is giving Snow a chance to back down. The gun inches ever closer to Snow's head and I feel my heart begin to race a little bit more.

"She doesn't put out, does she?" Snow smirks. "I thought not. It's a shame—with her body, I bet it'd be amazing." Gale is red. The Captain looks at me and from his look, he wants to know if he should restrain Gale. I can't answer him. I don't know what to do. Snow is talking about something so intimate. He is taking any semblance of control away from me—even my sexual relationship is on the table. I feel like my body has been invaded. I can see Snow's eager hands prying away my pieces and presenting me naked to the men surrounding me. "You know why don't you?" Snow's voice turns deadly. "It's him."

Him. The word falls so deep within me I can feel it vibrate my bones. Him. Peeta. Confused, I look up.

Gale and I have tried. Coupled with my frustration at my failure to keep Peeta safe and the gaping hole in my chest Peeta used to fill, I needed something to make me feel close to another human being. We tried a few weeks after we found each other again. It had been hot and sticky and scary. I stopped it before we even got our undergarments off. We tried again later, but it always ended the same. I would end on the verge of tears and Gale would wonder what he was doing wrong. Was he hurting me? Wasn't this what I wanted? I never figured it out.

"Shut up."

"She's in love with him. Always has been."

"Shut up!" Gale's voice has more intensity in it. I've never seen him this upset, this aggressive. His hostility shakes me.

"And why? You've been perfect. You've held her when she cries, you've talked her to sleep. You took care of her family. Why didn't she pick you?" Snow does not take his eyes off of Gale, but Gale has shifted his focus. His eyes, his lips, his cheeks are turned towards me; exuding the pent up frustration he's been hiding from me for two years. "You know she dreams about him. At night, she'll call his name. She dreams about him wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight against his naked body. She wants him, emotionally _and _physically." Snow paused before he delivered the final blow. "She wants him inside her."

I do not move. Gale searches me for some kind of denial. He wants anything that will tell him Snow's lying. And I try to give it to him. I try to make my eyes refute his accusation; I try to shake my head. But I can't, because things have finally made sense now; why I cannot kiss Gale with the same passion he gives me, why everything ends in tears when we try to be intimate and why I can't tell Gale I love him.

Because I am in love with Peeta.

"Face it _Cousin_ Gale," Snow jeers, "You're just not good enough."

What happens next happens so quickly not even I anticipate it. Within seconds, Gale whips his gun up to Snow's eye level. His finger finds the trigger. Snow's eyes widen as he stares down the barrel, but his lips sneer. Gale will shoot him. The realization gives me courage and I have purpose again. I bring the hand holding the gun up and hold it steady, perpendicular to Snow's forehead. I hold the gun as if I've never been more certain about anything in my entire life. I cannot let Gale break the law. Though I can't love him, I can still protect him.

"Put the gun down, Gale," I say, my voice as steady as lead.

Gale's anger gets the best of him. He falters. I try to get him to look at me, but he won't. He tries to hard to avoid my gaze. I refuse to cry even though I can feel the tears forming. Gale is breaking ties with me. Snow's words have done their damage. They've driven an impossibly deep wedge between Gale and me. Gale has been so focused on this rebellion, on bringing down the Capitol. I didn't matter, I was just something he couldn't leave behind. Now that destruction was so close, he didn't need me anymore. Things were black and white for him, but I was still stuck in the grey. I needed him to make things clearer.

So I do my best to reconnect with him. I gently place my hand on his arm and pull the gun down. He does not resist, but he keeps his eyes locked on Snow's unwavering ones. I grip Gale's fingers and skin. I need to feel close to him again. I push the gun from his hands and it clinks to the floor.

"Shoot him, Katniss." Gale hisses.

It's up to me now. I have to destroy Snow.

Gale besides me is impatient. The others, the soldiers and the Captain, are too. This was the reason they had integrated me so deeply into their resistance. They had trained me to use a gun, trained me to remain calm and trained me to murder for this very purpose. And I know I'm supposed to do this, but Peeta's voice keeps popping into my head: _"I don't want them to change me . . . Turn me into some monster that I'm not."_ The words chill me. Am I a monster?

"Katniss!" More urgent, "Shoot him! Do it now!"

I look at Snow. I hate him. I know I do. He turned me into this broken woman, the indecisive being. He took away everyone and everything I loved because he had the power. The gun I hold in my hands gives me the power now and more power than Snow. I look at Gale for help. I can't do this by myself.

"You can do it," Gale whispers. He brings a hand to my cheek. "Shoot him."  
Gale's touch brings me confidence. Yes, I can.

"Yes Katniss," Snow says, ruining my concentration. "Shoot me." He looks at me and narrows those cunning eyes. I know he can see me inside and out and for once, I understand what he means when he says he created me. "Shoot me… and Peeta dies."

_One_.

Empty.

_Two_.

I feel empty.

_Three_.

Gale's moved away from me now. He knows I will not shoot Snow, not while he has Peeta. He moves to the part of the room with the televisions, leaving me alone with Snow.

The floor shakes beneath my feet. I can't tell whether it's anger or fear that's making me feel this way. The gun is no longer a comfort, but I hold it tight anyway. It's a barrier between me and Snow who is smiling so sickly I want to carve it off him.

_Four._

"Katniss," Gale calls from behind me. I cannot break away from the eyes encroaching my boundaries. Snow's hold on me is tighter than ever because he is the one person that can bring me to Peeta. "Katniss, turn around."

Snow breaks contact and looks down at his folded hands. The spell broken, I turn around to face Gale and the TV screens.

And I see Peeta. He's strapped to a chair by thick leather bands. He's huddled over and has his arms tightly wound around himself, surrounded by a desert. His eyes have been covered—a new addition to his torture scars. Blood pools at his feet and from the struggled breaths, I can tell his nose has been broken. He's missing his leg. They've taken his artificial one and left the stump instead. Even looking like hell, Peeta is unbelievably breathtaking. I stride across the floor and came to a stop only when I am directly in front of the screens. He is so close. I raise my fingers and stroke the poor, broken body. That's when I notice the vest he's wearing: black, heavy and strapped with thirty sticks of dynamite. I turn back to Snow. I can kill him now.

But he's laughing again, his maniacal laugh. And in his folded fingers he holds a round, red detonation button.

_Five_.


	2. The Agreement

Disclaimer: Only the plot idea belongs to me, the characters, situation and setting all belong to Suzanne Collins. Hopefully she likes fanfic!

A/N: I know it's been a while since I updated, but y'all have a long chapter! That's the bright side right? I guess I should've warned you that I'm a college student—that comes first, then comes fanfiction. I do have a plan for this fic though, it's a matter of writing them down and publishing it for you. If anybody has questions or suggestions, let them rip! I love talking about my fanfics or the books. Also, please know that constructive comments or criticism are always welcome! Thanks and enjoy.

* * *

"What do you want?" I ask. Snow's staring at me with the same kind of sick humor he had when he showed me the detonator. He has all the power there in his manicured hands.

"Katniss," he say and clucks his tongue. I feel like a little girl being scolded for breaking my mother's favorite lamp. Only Snow is not my mother and I only wish it was a lamp. "You know. You know exactly what I want." His voice is tender. It beckons me. I take a few steps towards him, but Gale holds me back. I can feel his fingers pressing into my muscles. He won't let me do this.

But he doesn't have a choice.

Snow nods in agreement with me. Yes, we cannot let Gale get in the way of our agreement. He'd ruin everything. "You can save him Katniss," he purrs, "it's so simple." The blood-rose smell intoxicates me. "I only want your death. I want to see you suffer just as you have made me suffer."

It's only fair. I had ruined everything Snow ever had, why shouldn't he want me dead? Wasn't I, just moments ago, thinking of blowing his head off? The exchange seems natural—Peeta's life in exchange for mine.

Fate is always against me.

"You're crazy."

I forgot he was there. In the hectic world of bargaining, Gale was shoved to the side. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Gale would definitely not understand. From deep down, I feel a pain. Something is pulling me towards Gale. If I go with Snow, I can't protect Gale. If I stay here, Peeta could die. I have to choose. Between them.

I push the thought aside quickly. Decisions like that should not be made while staring down your personal enemy. Instead I focus on Gale and Gale's extremely distressed face. I hate myself for hurting him. Snow stays quiet. He's already made Gale doubt me—he has nothing else left to do.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Catnip?" Gale grips my arm. He's not as good with words. The nickname is a low blow and Gale knows it.

"I have to Gale." My tone is even and this makes Gale even angrier.

"Katniss," my name escapes as a hiss. "You're being an idiot. If you think for one minute that this asshole is ever going to…"

"I have to Gale," I say again. His exasperation is chipping away at my patience and my resolve. I see how the corner of Gale's eye is twitching and how his neck is pulled taught. Even though I can still feel the distance between us, his voice betrays his fear. It makes me soften. I shift my focus—if only for a second—to him. I actually look at him, actually take him in. He's worried about me. I hate what I'm doing to him, but for my sake, I have to shut him up. If he upsets me, I will seem weak in front of Snow.

I wish Gale would understand the importance of indifference in the situation, just like he did on Reaping Day when he pulled Prim off me. But does he? No. Instead, he grits his teeth and releases his grip on me. While I watch, he turns from me and leaves the room.

For a minute, I don't move. I stand in exactly the same spot thinking of what I'm supposed to do next. I want nothing more than to run into our room and apologize. But I have a job to do.

"Trouble in paradise, Catnip?"

Words cannot describe the effect Snow's voice has on my body. My heart immediately begins to race. My hair stands straight up, electrocuted by the noise. I can feel the sweat pool around the backs of my knees and armpits. It doesn't seem fair. This man should not have power over me. He has the ability to turn me into the little girl, lost and frantically searching for her mother. Except I'm not searching for my mother—I'm looking for myself, lost in Snow's own web of manipulations and secret plans. Somehow, I am trying to find my other half. Snow has already mapped out my entire life and is driving me off the paved route.

His eyes are the most chilling thing about him. When they're opened wide, you can feel your insides shifting as they try to hide from his gaze. As repulsing as they are, he's my only hope of ever finding Peeta again. So I step towards him.

"Ok," I sigh, suddenly tired with the weight of Gale and Peeta, indifferent to whatever he might ask of me. "What do I have to do?"

********

"You are crazy."

"I really wish you'd stop saying that," I say, trying frantically to shove bags of water into my small bag. They don't stay long. Gale rips them from my hands. They serve as hostages in the war he was raging against me now.

"Do you realize what the hell you're doing?" Do I realize I had just promised Snow I'd accompany him alone on his way back to the Capitol? Do I realize that Snow had no incentive to keep me alive and I would probably be killed before I even got to Peeta? Why yes, Gale. Yes, I do.

"I'm not a child, Gale. I know what I'm doing." Gale scoffs behind me. Clearly, he is not as confident in me as I am.

"Really? Katniss, he will kill you. You have no idea what this man is capable of."

"And you do?" I snap. I shouldn't be angry at Gale. He's trying to protect me. But I don't need protecting—protection got me into this mess in the first place. Haymitch protected me from the Capitol, but Peeta was captured and I had no say in the matter. "Because last time I checked, I was the one who Snow paid a personal visit too. I'm the one he threatened. I'm the one he sent back to the Hunger Games arena. I'm the one he follows around with cameras and Peacemakers. Not. You." I snatch the bags back from his hands. I needed something to focus on, something to keep my hands busy.

Gale lets out a noise that sounded like a growl. I know he's trying to figure out how to strap me down and make me see reason. Eventually, he'll realize that reason has never been an option in my life. He walks into the bathroom we share and slams the door.

I survey my clothes, trying to figure out what the best wardrobe would be for the journey. Bringing up Snow's manipulation of me was a low blow. But in truth, I divide my life into two halves—Gale's half and Peeta's half. For a long time, it was just before the games and after. Two years without Peeta, without the games and without running for my life have made me realize that those two men define me better than any life altering event ever can. I'm one person with Gale and another with Peeta. I don't know how to be the other half when I'm with the other person. I can talk with Peeta, I can understand his feelings. He wears them on his sleeve. Gale is a different breed entirely. Ever since I was rescued, there's been disconnect between us. And neither of us wants to face it.

From the bathroom, I hear glass breaking. I suspect he's demolished a mirror in his anger. Gale could be crying behind the door, but I don't know if that would stop me. A particular loud crash almost blocks out the knock at the door to our apartment. It's brief and the handle turns before I can call out. Only one person has the guts to enter our space unannounced.

Haymitch swaggers in, his hands shoved into his pockets. I stop what I'm doing and watch his eyes roll over the bed, the open drawers and the lamp in suspicious pieces on the carpet. There's a stale smell clinging to his clothes that makes me wonder when was the last time he had something to drink. Since we lost Peeta, Haymitch has ignored me. I think he feels guilt. I didn't mind—I blamed him for leaving Peeta behind. He didn't tell me the whole story.

As sober as Haymitch could ever be, he lowers himself onto my bed and settles besides my stack of clothing.

"Leave me alone, Haymitch."

"What are you doing, sweetheart?"

It takes me a moment to digest his tone. True, we haven't spoken in weeks, but I never thought about how he feels towards the whole situation. He sounds just as scratchy as he's ever been. It makes me mad, how calm and unchanging he's been.

"I'm going to save Peeta." And I honestly don't know why you asked me that question, I want to add.

"You don't have a clue how you're going to do that," It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He knows me so well—it was getting old. I picture him watching me from the TV screen and shaking his head with the loaf of bread in his hands. The last Hunger Games wasn't for me, or for Peeta, it was for Haymitch. Haymitch and his selfish agenda.

I hate everyone and their god damn rebellion.

"I don't care Haymitch. I don't care if I die or if I'm ripped to shreds when Snow blows up the dynamite—I'm going to be with Peeta. I'm going to show him that even if you and District Twelve and all of Panem forget him, I will still be there. I won't give up."

"That's good. I'm glad you don't care, because I'm putting everything I got on your death. Snow would rather hand over the Capitol's keys to District 13 than let you and Peeta live. I'm so happy you realize this."

The shower switches on and I hear more pounding against the wall. Gale is not happy. Neither am I. I was tired of everyone telling me what to do

"Your lover boy's pissed, eh?" There was a time when I admired Haymitch's cut-to-the-shit attitude. That was before

I grunt and try to keep my mind of things by shoving a parka into my bags.

"You won't need that," Haymitch says, leaning back against our headboard. I stare a minute thinking how out of place he looks in this bedroom. "It's hot where you're going."

Just like that, Haymitch slips into the mentor role and my mind responds instantly. With him, I had direction. I didn't have to think, I just have to respond. Survive.

"Didn't you see it?" He asks, shooting me a sideways look. I had, but I'd forgotten. "Well shit, you're in trouble." I roll my eyes. The thought has occurred to me. I shift gears and try desperately to take stock of my hot weather gear.

"Here," he says, "stand up."

He pulls on my arms and forces me up. He places me in front of him. His eyes survey my body and my clothes. Oddly, I'm not uncomfortable. It's not like Snow who searches to find my weakness, the rebellion teams that want to find my strengths, or even Gale who wants to find me. Haymitch is simply finding the way to keep me alive. His fingers pull at gaps in my belt, tug at my pockets to see how deep they go and bends down to check how much leeway is around my ankles. I don't question, but I wonder what exactly he's searching for.

"Snow's not going to let you carry anything. Where you're going, he doesn't want you to survive. You'll probably be dropped off with just the clothes on your back, the few things we can hide in those clothes," he pauses from his place at my feet to shoot me a toothy grin before adding, "And your charming personality."

I laugh. It feels so good to laugh. Despite the fact that I blame Haymitch entirely for Peeta's capture, he is my link to the person I am in the Hunger Games. He knows where the hunter, where the killer has been hiding after all these years. I depend on him to pull it out.

He takes the bags from my bag and shoves them in the open space he can find. He hands me a small bottle filled with a white slave that smells sweet—like the coconut I tasted in the Capital after our win.

"Shove it in your bra, make sure it's well hidden. That's important."

"What is it?" I ask.

"Sun lotion. It'll protect you from the burn. You only need a little at a time so make sure you use it sparingly. Put it on the boy first. Bra. Now." Despite the circumstances, I smile. Good to know Haymitch finally recognizes me as part of the female world. "Wear your fleece on the hovercraft. It should keep you warm enough at night. Do you have another one for him?"

I shook my head, but paused. Gale probably wouldn't like it if I gave Peeta his jacket, but it wasn't doing him much good in the temperature controlled underground. I shrug and walk to the dresser to take it anyway.

"Put yours on, and then put his on. I'm going to try to make it look like you're just wearing one. Stand still."

I mimic a statue. I can feel Haymitch behind me, tucking and bending. He knows exactly what he needs to do to keep me alive. But what do I do? Without Haymitch to send me anything I need, without the advantage of a President at the mercy of national ratings and with Peeta who needs more help than I can get him, I'm at a loss. I don't have the support.

"Haymitch," I say. He throws me an absent-minded look. "I'm going to die." I whispered.

I felt Haymitch's fingers grip into my side where he had been tucking in a part of my jacket into my jeans. His touch feels comforting and prepares me for his answer.

"I think so, sweetheart," he stands up and take those hands up to my shoulders. For the first time, I catch myself looking into my eyes. He is the closest person to a father I have left. Hearing his voice confirm what I already feared made me want to cry. His breath, stale like he smells, calms me. I focus on breathing in with it and out when his touches my face.

"I just…" he starts. I feel his voice rumbled in his chest and catch in his throat.

He takes my hand and leads me to the bed. I sit down and he sits next to me. The room is eerily quiet and I can see on Gale's face that he's wrestling with something. "I just don't see how we can make it through this."

We. Him, me and Peeta. Us.

I wrap my arms around him and he pulls me tight. From this angle, I notice a different side of Haymitch. Under my arms, I feel tight muscles fighting for attention. I smell a clean scent of soap and cotton. There's tenderness to the hug, even as we're frantically shifting to get a better grip on each other. As if we're going to slip away. All the while, there's a hole there with us. Right where _he_ should be. The three of us. We.

"He might be my favorite," I hear him gruffly whisper into my ear, "but you're mine. You finally deserve him."

The words weigh heavily on me. I'm sifting through their meaning when I hear the bathroom door slam shut with the same amount of force it had when it was thrown open. Though I can't see him, I know Gale's shooting us disproving looks. Haymitch pulls away and though I don't want him to, I make no move to stop him.

"Haymitch," Gale allows. Haymitch gives a slight nod of his head before

returning to his task. I bring my eyes up to meet Gale's. Luckily, I haven't cried yet. I don't want Gale to have any more reason to hate Haymitch. The two have never gotten along. Haymitch constantly reminds him of the Games and how Gale could never infiltrate the bond. Haymitch hates Gale because to him, every inch of me belongs with Peeta—Gale was just getting in the way.

"Ok kid, you're all set. Remember you don't have weapons and Snow wants to kill you. When you get Peeta, get him fast and take cover. Do not let anything distract you—we both know how easy that is. The team and I will try to rescue you as soon as we can. Your job," he tweaks my nose. I draw my nose back in disgust. Typical Haymitch—he knows I hate that. "Is to stay alive. And find water. Quickly."

He gives me a brief fleeting hug. The bags of water jiggles against us and when he leaves me, the water sloshes around to take over the space he abandoned.

"Make me proud!" I hear him say as he rounds the corner into the hallway. Then, he slams the door. I smile slightly. Leave it to Haymitch to mock Gale's fuming anger.

"What'd he want?" Gale asks. His hair is wet from the shower. Without a shirt and standing in his running shorts, I realize how easy it would be to just give in… or give up. I could empty my jeans and fleeces of the gallons of water, strip down and just be Catnip. The girl Gale loves. The girl before.

But it would be too easy. And Peeta would die—alone.

"He came to give me a few tips," I said. "You know, mentor stuff. He gave me some sun lotion. It smells really good. Want to try?"

"No." I shrug and survey the room for anything I could have forgotten. Though I was pretty sure I couldn't fit another thing. "You're really doing this then?" I nodded. "For him?"

There it was. The Question.

"Can we not do this now? I have to go soon." I steal a look at Gale and know that we will definitely be having this conversation now.

"You already left once without saying goodbye." He's right, but what he doesn't know is that I spent that train ride numb, groping for memories of him. "You might… I don't know if I'll ever see you again. I have to know the truth. So tell me—me or him."

I don't answer. I keep my eyes trained to the spot in the carpet I made with a blow torch the summer I found out the Capital had killed Cinna. A bit of my Hunger Games world in the world I shared with Gale. Which realm did I feel drawn too the most? Who did I need most?

"There's no room for me in you, Gale." I whisper.

"No room?" He gasps, "No room? What do you call this? What do you call our life together? We've spent two years together Katniss. Is that nothing?"

"Gale, there isn't really an us. You have the rebellion. Ever since I got back from the Hunger Games, it's been the rebellion. There's no room for me in your head. All you think about is how you can kill Snow—you didn't stop to think about what or who has been affected. The war pushed me out, Gale. I can't connect with you anymore. I don't know how to talk to you unless it's about the districts or guns or the Capital. I've never been a priority."

There's distance between us. I have the bed and Gale has the floor. It's a delicate stand-off. The humid air hangs suspended and clings to the hot words. My words disappear, making room for his.

"Oh and I have? Have I been a priority in your life, Catnip? You and Haymitch and Finnick float around like you're in a different world. I can't touch that, Katniss. I've tried. I can't be a part of you when I'm not even in the same realm as you." He riffles his fingers through his hair and neck in agitation. I can see the marks they make on his pale skin like the red welts his confession is leaving on mine. "You're still stuck in the Hunger Games, still stuck in that survival mode they trained you to be." Two years. It has taken us two years to be this honest with each other. "You're still stuck on him. It's like you've convinced yourself that he's the game you have to be playing with. How can I compete with that?"

You can't, I answer in my head. But I don't say it aloud—he does.

"I can't do it anymore, Catnip. I love you. I love you so much. But I love who you were. That girl could run barefoot through the woods and take down a deer with a stroke of an arrow. I don't want the girl who's concerned with scheming or saving. You say you can't connect with me? I can't connect either. Your priority is a boy who is most likely dead already. So tell me," he demands, "Me or Peeta."

His teeth clench. His fists ball. Sweat drips down the back of my shirt, but I can't tell whether that's because of the double layers of fleece I'm wearing or the heat of the moment.

"I--" don't get to finish the statement. There is a knock at the door, swift and authoritative.

Gale scoffs in anger. Forcefully, he opens the door and curtly asks, "What?"

It's for me. The messenger has been sent to collect me. Everything's ready and Snow would like to leave. They just need one more thing: me. My hatred of Snow seems to grow a little bit more. He is even able to ruin the one relationship I want to hold on to. Once again, he denies me any kind of goodbye.

"We need to leave now," he informs me.

"Don't go, Katniss." Gale counters.

Peeta needs me.

"Don't leave yet, we're not done."

I move towards the hallway. There's nothing more to say. Anymore and we might lose each other.

"Please," Gale seizes my arm and spins me to look at him, "Don't go."

Don't choose him, his eyes beg.

I lean in to kiss him. My lips mold to his like they've done for two years. My heart wraps around his and I find my place in his hand. His arms instinctively wrap around me. Even if our minds aren't cooperating, our bodies are.

"I have to do this," I say quietly, "But I love you. And I'll always love you."

I don't answer the question. I don't answer because I don't want that finality. If I'm not saved, I don't want to die hated. If I survive, but Peeta doesn't, I would need someone to pick up the pieces. I don't want to be alone.

Gale does not follow me out. Maybe that means he's made his choice.

The messenger drives me to the dock, located on the other side of the complex. I survey the hidden skyscrapers and suspended signs of city life. Residents from all around come out to see me off. Some wave, some shake their heads and some shout. For two years, this has been my home. I have spent so long wanting Peeta to come back to me. I've had a mission. The suspension has driven me wild and now, feeling as if I have purpose, I feel life again. I'm not in mission control twiddling my thumbs or helplessly looking at Peeta on the TV screen. I'm doing something.

When I get to the dock, there is a red carpet leading from the edge to the hovercraft I was to fly in. Standing halfway in the middle was Snow. A few bruises have popped up around his right eye and I can't help but wonder who it was that gave it to him. He is dressed in a suit and he looks regal. He finally matches my memory of him.

He smiles and leans close to me. He offers his hand and as he takes me in, his smile falters. It turns downwards into a sneer.

"You're ready." His words are matter of fact. I knew he saw the change in me. He was sizing me up not as the puppet he was used to, the puppet he's manipulated. Standing before him, I'm the person he fears the most: the one who is entirely capable of bringing down his government. I am strong, proud, and crazy. He cannot intimidate me. I won't back down.

Because I have nothing to lose.

I felt my mouth smile as I said, "I'm ready."


	3. The Dinner

Snow's brief moment of hesitation quickly disappears. He bows slightly to me and extends his arm to me. There's a roll of disgust that slips through the crowd behind us. His suit, his bow, the red carpet… it's all an act. He tries to show he's in control. He's still accustomed to the luxuries and he commands power even in the one place he has none. If I take the arm, I cross a threshold. District 13 will be at my back and Snow will guide me towards his hovercraft. And Peeta. I fold my arm into his and he brings my hand up to his lips.

"I'm so glad you've chosen to accompany me," he says, "I daresay you'll find the fresh air a bit more comfortable than this hell hole." He turns me away from the set of a thousand eyes and we walk slowly up the red carpet. His stance is tall, his shoulders rolled back. There's the slow _click-clack_ of his loafers as he walks. Ahead of us, I can just see a dining table where Snow's loyal servants are smoothing a crisp white tablecloth around a series of silver dishes. An Avox stands precociously on a chair as he tries to polish the years of caked on dust from the hanging chandelier. At the doorway, a man stands with his arms folded behind his back and his feet spread slightly apart. He straightens his collar and tugs at his cufflinks. The suit— which he appears to have outgrown—could have fed the Seam for a month.

A sudden fear rises in me. I'm underdressed. I'm walking into the one world where power and beauty can be seen as an advantaged and I'm dressed in fleece and linen pants with water shoved every which way up my bra and underwear.

"Not to worry," Snow presses his clammy palm on top of mine. "My servants are very open-minded. They will not judge you."

I concentrate on making my strut match Snow's. I imagine a string, pulling me to the ceiling and let my other hand drop lightly on my outer thigh. I feel my hips rock and my shoes begin to have a similar _click-clack_. I only hope I look regal enough. If I become cannon fodder for the servants, I'll never be able to gain the upper hand. A strong gate means power.

The walk is long. I spend a few moments imagining myself turning away and walking backwards towards the simpler life—the one where Gale and Haymitch took care of everything. I'm so lost in the thought that my foot catches on the stairs to the hovercraft. I feel the fleeting sensation of weightlessness before fingers tightly gripped my arm. Snow's fingernails dug so deeply into my skin that I could feel the wetness of blood brush against my shirt.

From behind me, I hear the click of various guns being raised. I glance behind me and am a little surprised to find a least four of them being pointed at Snow's head. All noise ceases. I could only hear the ragged breathing of the collective crowd and the controlled rise and fall of Snow's chest.

"Nothing to worry about friends," he calls to the guns. "Lower your weapons. Our Katniss just lost her footing, that's all. Please," he turns to address his assistant who had pulled out a long gun in front of him and pointed it in the direction of one of our generals, "Let's be civilized. No need for violence over a simple misstep."

His assistant nods and places the gun besides the door. He stands at attention, his eyes blazing holes into the army behind me. I do not have to turn around to know that they have not dropped their guns. Snow smiles and opens the hand that's not clutching my arm.

"Gentleman," he oozes, "Come now." He pulls me around to face the crowd, careful to make it seem like I'm doing it of my own accord. His fingers dig deeper and I have to concentrate on keeping my face collected. _Tell them_, his hand says. He twists his hand and I feel my skin split open. _Or else_, he adds.

"Drop them," I croak. I still find it hard to utter commands after these last few years. I've found it hard to find my strength at all. Within seconds, the army lowers the guns. The tension is still there, but their guns are place safely at their hips.

Snow's eyes narrow. His thick lips form a heavy rose. "Let's go," he urges. He drops my arm and cradles my hand once more.

When we cross the threshold, I'm careful to pick up my feet. No room for mistakes this time. Almost unceremoniously, the door slams behind me . . . and locks. No chance to change my mind. Trapped. Snow's assistant flutters behind me. He eases off Snow's jacket and places it next to the gun, mixing business with sick pleasure. The smell of roses burns my nose but I have trouble discerning whether that's because of the bouquets that surround me or the sticky smell that drips from the man besides me.

He comes for me and attempts to pry the fleece from me. I politely—then roughly—refuse, insisting that the hovercraft is too chilly for a girl that's been in the heat of the underground. I catch the look the assistant sends to Snow before the man snaps his fingers and leaves. An Avox, dressed in the starch white that I'd forgotten, motions us to a room down the hall. I finally realize how we're going to be spending the hour and a half it takes to tow the hovercraft away from District 13—a dinner.

The room is crisp and bright. There is a black tablecloth with red petals painstakingly laced into its hem, framing the golden plates. White napkins sit at their helm, folded into elaborate fans. Gold lace, gold platters and gold candlesticks litter the table as the glittering light from the chandelier bounce off their surface. One orb catches me in the eye and I take a step back, temporarily blinded by its opulence. When I open them again and regain my sense, I notice the two place cards—gold. My name, in loops I couldn't dream of creating, designates my place. I'm to sit at Snow's left hand. His name glares up at me with heavy, block letters. He's to sit at the head.

The Avox creeps Snow's chair back from the table. Snow carefully situates himself and allows the Avox to push him in. She takes the napkin and places it in his lap. Then she comes for me. I pull out my chair and plop down before she can reach me. The chair grates on the floorboards as I push myself in and I leave the napkin on the table. If it's one thing I've learned in the Games, it's that revolution is in the small things.

Snow says nothing of the matter. He waits. He swirls his wine and sniffs it with great anticipation. He processes the smell and looks to some distant object. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking of. How can he enjoy the delicacies of wine with all the things for which he's responsible? I silently hope that the wine turns into blood when he tastes it, but he seems to smile slightly when he brings it to his lips. I'm left thoroughly dissatisfied.

There's wine in front of me, but I don't touch it. I'm not the same person when I get that kind of stuff in my system and I need my wits about me. I reach for the water in front of me. When I sip it, it tastes like the Capitol. I'm brought back to the days I was forced to parade around Snow in his home and pretend like I had no care in the world. And then, I don't care to drink.

The Avox returns with two steaming plates. They teeter back and forth. She sets the larger one in front of Snow and the smaller one in front of me. She turns back to Snow and removes his cover. Steam rises from a whole roasted duck. The juice rolls down its breast and into the roasted vegetables that surround the bird. The duck could feed five people down in the district. Of course, Snow has no intention of sharing it with them. The Avox moves from the ducks, but not before I see her steal a longing look at its crisp skin. I never thought to ask what they eat. From the looks of her, I'm sure they're not fed well.

In another act of rebellion, I daringly rip the cover off of my plate. And I instantly regret it. Lamb and plum stew. The smell floods my nose. If it is possible to be repulsed and seduced at the same moment, this was my moment. My tastebuds erupt because they remember. My stomach rolls because it remembers. And my heart sinks because it remembers, it remembers Peeta's laugh. Because of all the things I ever ate in the Capitol, this was the thing I choose as my favorite: something as simple as lamb and plum stew.

"Your favorite, is it not?" Snow looks up from the roasted duck. He has stripped a bit of meat from the cadaver and holds it to his mouth. A bit of wine drips from the edge of his lips. "I wanted you to enjoy your meal," he says. He slips the fork in and mulls over what he chews. His eyes follow mine as they wave from the stew, to the candles, to his duck, to him. He smiles, "After all, it will be your last."

He's trying to get me agitated. He wants to see me squirm. He wants to know that he's gotten under my skin. And he has, but I've gotten under his as well. I saw the look when the soldiers refused to listen to him—only me. He's lost control outside the walls of his hovercraft. He's no longer all powerful—I'm just powerless against him.

"Yes," I say instead, "I enjoy it very much. Although this is missing something... the plums, they're not as juicy. They seem quite old, not as juicy as when I first had it. I wonder why." I look over the spoon, pretending I'm pondering all the possibly reasons. I know that my remark has hit home. District 11 is the agricultural district. They would be responsible for providing the Capitol with fresh goods, but obviously, District 11 is not under Snow's control.

"Do you really think you have a chance?" he asks. He has grown tired of delicately sawing the flesh from bone and instead, takes his fingers and rips the duck's leg from its body. The duck shakes a bit from the force, but settles back down onto its bed. I look a bit closer—the carrots are a dark orange and the squash looks mealy. I can't help but smile.

"Actually, I do. Maybe not for me, but I think Panem will be rid of you soon." The lamb stew slides down my throat. It's so hot that it claws at my insides. Or maybe, it's not the stew, but the topic we're currently discussing that makes my guts want to throw up. Being strong is hard, especially when you're facing the man that can see right through you.

"Don't count those chickens, yet girl. You forget, I will kill you. And then," he pauses to take a sip of that red, red wine, "And then what will the world do without its precious mockingjay?"

I shrug. To be honest, I haven't thought about it. I don't really care. My life these past years have consisted of one thing: getting Peeta back. Nothing else seems to matter. I'm still a little bitter they pulled me into it in the first place.

"They'll carry on with it, I guess. If you're trying to get the details of revolution, you won't get them from me. I don't know the plans. I didn't participate in the raids. In fact, I had no idea they were trying to capture your hovercraft until this morning. So, if that's what you planned this dinner for, I'm very sorry to disappoint."

"Katniss," he hums. He sets the wine glass down gently. I hear the subtle ding as the glass' edge hits his golden dinner plate. He dabs his mouth with his napkin and places it to the side. "I planned this dinner, because I want to make it very clear that this is your last. I have no intention of letting you two come back alive. Where you're going, there is no food—I've made sure of that. I want you to die the slow, humiliating death of starvation. Your followers need to know that you're not some immortal agent of redemption. You're just a girl. You can suffer and you can die. Just like everyone else." He picks up the fork and stabs a tomato. "And if the boy happens to die in the process, it would just be an added bonus."

No food. Those are the words that sink in the most. I hear him say he wants me dead and I hear him say that he doesn't want me to come back. I already knew those things and I've heard them before. But now, knowing that where I'm going won't give me any chance to keep myself alive, I become more scared than ever before. Most of all, I think of Peeta, broken and starving. Without food, I had no chance of keeping him alive.

"Eat up, Katniss. You'll need your energy." My fight leaves me. My image of Peeta burns itself into my mind. I have to eat. I'm his only hope. I pick up my spoon and, with no regard to table manners, shovel the stew in my mouth. I want to feel that full sensation I'd experienced so many times during the Victors' parade. I need protein. I try to eat more of the lamb than the broth. No need to fill my stomach on the food that can't help me. When I reach the end of the bowl, I look up.

Snow has completely inhaled the duck. Little is left besides bone and the neck—"I don't care for the taste of that meat," he says. The Avox comes back around and picks up our dishes.

I watch her pick the gold with a delicacy I couldn't manage if I try. She is able to balance them better now that there's only bones and not a duck in its entirety. Snow wipes the last of his dinner from his rosy lips and I'm still thinking about what I'm going to do without any chance for food. Food and water. From the very beginning, Haymitch drilled it into our heads. We would never survive without food and water.

"Tell the chef," Snow commands the Avox, "I think we're ready for dessert."

\\\\\\\

That night, I'm tucked tightly in a bed that's too big for my taste. It's been years since I slept alone and the size of this bed illuminates that fact. I try to wrap the blankets around me in an attempt to fool my body, but it already knows all my tricks. I'm alone. In a way, I've felt alone ever since I woke up in the bed of the last hovercraft I was on.

Snow dropped me off three hours ago with a full stomach and a promise—I would not be able to leave this room. Don't even try. He left a plain nightgown on the bedpost, but I was too paranoid that the bedroom was rigged with cameras. I left my clothes on. They smelled like home. I left the bags too. I was too nervous that I won't be able to put them back in the right spot.

Now, lying in the bed, I'm able to think about the road ahead. I have one goal: get Peeta out alive. He's been through too much. I tried to negotiate freedom over the banana bread pudding, but it was as if I was speaking another language, one that Snow had no interest in translating. He made it clear: Peeta was my responsibility. And without food, and possibly without water if we're in longer than we can make those bags last, I had no possibility of getting him out. I would starve with him. Together.

There are worse ways to die.

I reach across the bed, but my hand falls on cold sheets. I try to think about who I want to be there. My fleece smells like Gale, but Peeta creeps into my head. Gale's body weighs heavily on the other side. My hand pretends to trace his familiar curves. But there's the ache that I've been hiding underneath. The one that's never happy.

I _need_ him.

I don't know how much longer the ride is going to be. Snow refused to tell me when I asked about it at dinner. I'm eager to get to Peeta. From what I saw on the TV, that broken frame is not the boy I left behind. His eyes were cold. His skin crawled with fear. Blood dripped from the bridge of his nose. When I close my eyes now, I see Peeta now. They shaved his head—Gale thinks his blonde hair was too iconic. They turned him from that strong baker's son and into a gaunt image of his former self.

_They want him to look like a child, like a boy_, Gale had said_, Less of a threat that way._

What was I going to find? What if I can save him? What if I bring him back, but he's not the same? What if the Capitol really did break him? I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

What if he doesn't love me anymore?

The last thought grips me so hard I almost feel the lamb crawling back up. I don't think I can live without him. Even if he's different, even if he's broken, I'm just going to have to pick the pieces and put him back together again. I'll get some potion, some medicine. My mother would know, or maybe Prim. They've been in the Medical Ward for the past few years; they must have picked up some useful tips. They'll know what to do. I'll bring him back; I'll make them fix him. And if they can't, well we'll just deal with that when it comes to it.

I pull my arms in, pretend like someone else is hugging me and fall into a tentative sleep.

I only get in a few hours before the light in my room snaps on. The Avox slips into my room and stands at the foot of the bed. The slow hum that drove me to sleep is gone. I know what it means. The hovercraft's engines have shut off. It's time.

I try to look out the window, but all I see is black. Peeta is somewhere down there, so close to me. The hair on my body stands up at the thought. I haven't been so near to him in years.

I nod to the Avox and stand up. The action brings a rush of blood to my head. The room spins around and I put my hand to the bedpost to steady myself. I meant to think of a plan. I meant to look around the room for things to make a bow, or sneak down to the kitchen to find food to steal. Why, why in the hell did I fall asleep? I'm not ready. There's no time.

The Avox brings me to a round, completely white room. My eyes burn from the lights. Before I have time to adjust, she shuts the door and leaves me alone. I note the ladder in the middle of the room and the cut out circle beneath it. I'm going to be put on that. Under that hole, Peeta is waiting for me—whether it's to save him or kill him, I don't care. I just want him.

Snow enters the room with a middle-aged woman. Next to the woman in the white lab coat, Snow's crisp brown stripped shirt looks out of place. I know he's here to watch my final moments, have his final words. I know I should be scared. Every inch of my body is boiling. I want so bad to climb on that ladder, be frozen in place and lowered. The back of my mind is telling me I should be more concerned about the lack of food, Peeta's condition, the escape plan and oh yes, the dynamite. But he's so close, I can't think of anything else.

Snow picks up on my ache and laughs.

"Oh Katniss," he says, "You were always so consumed by these games." He approaches me with his arms wide open. "I'm so glad you're here." He pulls me into his embrace. I don't resist, I don't really care to. He's trying to throw me off. He wants me to regret my decision and muddle my mind. Little does he know, Peeta's the only thing I'm seeing clearly right now. "You're going to make great television. They will finally understand why the revolution can never be successful—the Capitol always wins. We're too powerful for a simple girl to stop." He is giddy with the thought of my death. I look at him and see a small child on Parcel day, not the leader of our nation. I could have killed him.

Could have. But didn't.

The doctor pulls a vial from the countertop. I know what she's doing, so I hold out my arm. I don't have the patience to care about Snow. Peeta is right under my feet. I flex my toes and bounce on my heels—all I can do to stop myself from gripping the ladder and forcing it to lower me down. She pierces my skin with the needle and I feel a quick pinch. The tracker's deposited in me. Now the cameras can find us... where ever we may be.

With nothing else left, I lift my head to look at Snow. He cannot keep me here. He gives me a nod and I spring towards the ladder. My hands grasp the rung so tightly I wouldn't have been able to move regardless of whether or not it froze me in place. My heart races at the thought of purpose again. I can barely feel it under the weight of Peeta. But Snow can.

He places his hand tentatively on top of my chest. Frozen in place, there's little I can do to resist his touch. It's ice cold and yet, it burns holes in my skin. I'm suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am. Without the power of my body, there's not much I can do to resist his touch. In the cruelest of ways, Snow grins. All of his teeth glitter in the light that bounces off the white walls. He slips his tongue over his puffy lips and traces, with long and frightening fingers, the length of my collar bone.

"You know, it's such a waste. A girl of your talents, your wit… I could make you great." He leans a bit closer and the stench of blood overwhelms me. "Come away with me Katniss. You could have your pick of men, your own castles." He makes small circles around my shoulder and rests his hand around the side of my neck. "Aren't you tired of all this?" His voice is low, sympathetic. "You're about to enter another game of death and you have no hope of escaping." He brings his face next to mine and cradles my cheek. With a slow smile, he hums, "I can stop this. I can take away all your pain and you and your mother and your sister… they could be safe again. I will even forgive you lover. I'll let Gale live. All you have to do," he pauses and runs his thumb against the salty trail of tears his words are leaving behind, "is let Peeta go."

There is an instant that I thought about giving in. Though I hate to admit it, his promises sound so sweet and I itch to accept it. It would be so easy—everything I wanted would be rolled into a happy ending. I could live safely. I could live like a normal person. And I want it. I want it so bad I can hardly see Snow, even though he's standing right in front of me with that horrible seductive look in his eyes. He sees it in my eyes. He knows he's got my attention. He holds out his hand and lowers it to wrap around mine.

No. The brief moment of illusion is shattered by Snow's claim of possession. I'm suddenly ashamed that I even thought of accepting the offer. He will never let me go. Even this deal would come with strings attached. The world would hate me for losing Peeta.

I've spent the last few years trying to cope without him when he was still alive. I know I can't survive without him on this Earth. He's the rock that grounds me. With Gale, there's passion. With Peeta, there's something lighter, but heavy and more complete. Peeta carries the weight of my heart. How could I ever have thought of leaving that for the rose with blood thorns that Snow's handing me?

I look away from him. Snow sighs and drops his hands.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to this," he says. He pulls something from his pocket. I'd forgotten. I had forgotten that besides Peeta, there's also the issue of the dynamite strapped to his chest. I had forgotten about the detonator that Snow is holding so delicately in his hands. "Tell him I say goodbye, will you, my dear? I did like him so." He leans towards me and brushes puffy lips against my quivering cheek. "I'll give you five minutes to say goodbye."

And he smiles as if I should be grateful. In a way, I am. Five minutes would be enough time to tell Peeta all the things I've been meaning to tell him. I could say goodbye in five minutes. I'm getting much better at saying goodbye.

"Good luck," Snow says as he retreats from the white room, "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

The door slams behind him. From beneath me, that round door slides open. Even though I'm frozen to the ladder, my mind tells me to grip tighter. Below me, wind whipped sand against the ground. I can feel the grit digging into my skin. I welcome the feeling. The force is much better than Snow's soft hands on my body.

I find it hard to be patient as the ladder lowers me. Though its pitch black, I know Peeta's there. I feel the ladder hit the ground and instantly, I'm released from the rungs. I hear the hum of the hovercraft's engines kick on and from above me, I'm sure I can hear it fly away. I breathe a sigh of relief. I tilt my good ear—the one the Capitol didn't have to rebuild—to hear anything that can help me find him.

"Peeta?" I shout to the wind and hope it will carry my voice.

No response. The night is still aside from the occasional crack of distant thunder. I take a few steps around. He must be close. The Capitol would want that wonderful, bittersweet reunion before they blew us both to smithereens.

"Peeta!" I try again, more demanding this time, as if I was a mother about to reprimand her child for not responding to her call. The landscape—even in the dark—is clearly set out before me. I wrestle with the decision: if I walk around, I could find him or I could be walking further from where he's being held.

"Peeta!" Snow is probably watching with glee. I can hear the seconds ticking away, though I know it's probably just the frantic beat of my heart. _Find him_, it says. "Peeta," I respond.

What if I don't make it? Even though logic states otherwise, I have a sinking feeling that I'm miles away from him and the last image I will see of him is the explosion. A cry, strangled and mangled, escapes from me. I become frantic. I fan out my hands as if they're going to run into some clue that will lead me to him. Desperation leaks from my pores. I feel the sand mixing with my sweat to make a thick coat on the back of my neck. The thought is torture.

"Peeta," I cry. I choke on his name. I have so little time left to utter it. I strain to hear. The banging of my heart is so loud; it makes it hard to think straight. I'm losing him. I'm so close, but I can't even save him. The realization of my failure pulls me into the ground. The water I'd cleverly stashed mocks me as it churns my insides. I pull my knees towards myself. I'm trying to force myself up. I'm telling myself to stand and fight. I can't let Snow win. But my body refuses. Because in my mind, Peeta is already dead.

I give up. My tears mix with the sand. My throat seethes as I let Peeta's name escape one last time, "Peeta."

Then, from somewhere close by, I hear the crushed, disbelieving sound—"Katniss?"

* * *

A/N: Hello! You may have noticed my slight absence from this story. I blame it entirely on the fact that I've had horrible writer's block, I've watched the entire series of _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ and Katniss is a bitch (to write). Needless to say, we're getting along much better now and I have a direction for the story. The next chapter should be out much sooner than it took to write this one. On a different note, I left my books down at school so if you see something that's not in line with cannon that's why- please let me know so I can fix it! It's difficult when I can't cross reference. Finally, notice the title change. I had to do it because there was another Burning Embers out there. I think this fits anyway.

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine except the story. The characters and major plot line belongs to S. Collins.


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